


Worst Aid

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M, Tabristair - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having good intentions doesn't always mean it's a good idea to act on an impulse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worst Aid

To be perfectly honest, Alistair knew it would result in more trouble than it solved. He knew that it was foolhardy—stupid, even. It wasn’t something he had time for, what with the matter of saving the world currently sitting high on his “to do” list.

Did any of that stop him, though? Of course not.

Was the payoff actually worth it?

“Alistair, can’t you _please try_ to hold still?”

The council is still out on that.

“I _am_ holding still!” he insists. “It just—it _hurts_! Kind of reminds me of the time I fell into a bramble bush.”

“Hmph. Maybe you deserved it then, too.”

Alistair looks up at his makeshift nurse, only to find Aeron still looking as frustrated as she did when she dragged him out of the scuffle in Denerim’s marketplace. Perhaps he should be counting his blessings that she agreed to tend his wounds. Not that Wynne didn’t offer to heal them, bless, but it took a single look from his fellow Warden to transform that offer into a handful of basic first aid supplies.

“You’re lucky your nose isn’t broken,” Aeron says stiffly, tending again to the gash cutting through his left eyebrow. “You already sort of snore as it is. A broken nose would make it worse.”

“Aeron, please—” He stalls. “Hang on. _Snore?_ I don’t snore.”

“You do! A little bit—”

“I do _not—_ ” But then the sting of the salve kicks in; Alistair sucks in air through his teeth. “Son of a—you’re doing that on purpose!”

“I told you to _hold still—!_ ”

“ _I am!_ You’re pushing it hard on purpose!”

“ _I’m not!_ You just keep—you fidget and you keep… _talking_ and then you move—”

Aeron lets out a huff and tosses the washcloth back in the small bowl. She turns from him to unfurl and cut gauze. The frustration on her face only grows worse. Any other time, it would take no effort at all to dispel! A simple turn of phrase, a touch, perhaps a daring little kiss… But none of those things are going to work in his favor right now, not when the cause of her frustration is Alistair, himself.

“No broken nose. No need for stitches—” Aeron heaves a sigh. “You got so lucky today, you know that? That arsehole didn’t know the first thing about fighting.”

And Alistair can’t even stop himself as he says, “He certainly talked like he could hold his own.”

Aeron goes still. From ear-tips to toes, she tenses in a way he only sees in two instances—shortly before battle and while practicing diplomacy with people she does not like. Inwardly, Alistair curses. He drops his gaze.

“Have I mentioned that I’m sorry? Because I am. I did mention that, didn’t I?”

“That’s—” She shakes her head. “Alistair, that’s not the point—”

“And what is? Aeron—” Alistair ignores the throb of pain in his head as he tenses his jaw. “—he had no business saying those things to you. Calling you those things—”

“Do you really think he’s the first to call me a knife-ear, or that someone _hasn’t_ implied I’m some shem’s mistress before?” Aeron looks at him, the frustration tempered slightly with something that looks like sympathy in her brown eyes. “It’s not. It’s been a staple of my life since before you came along, and Alistair, there will always be someone who mistakes me for the help. In fact, with you around, it’s even more likely.”

“But it isn’t…”

A handful of words appear and disappear, each one less suitable than the last. Instead, Alistair falls silent. The salve still stings when she applies it to his other cuts and scrapes, but he does his best to hold in place. Aeron’s touch is gentler as she applies the strips of gauze. Her fingers move more carefully across his skin, landing on sore spots along his ribs and stomach. She murmurs something about bruises that he doesn’t completely catch. He looks up at her as she tends to his reddened knuckles.

“I should let Wynne tend to your hands,” Aeron says at last. “If your fingers swell up, your gloves won’t fit right, and—” She sighs a little. “—I won’t have that. I won’t have your safety compromised in battle.”

“So I suppose I don’t have to ask if you’re still cross, then—”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Ah.” Alistair’s heart drops. “So you are.”

“I didn’t say that.” And she does not resist when he draws her closer; when Alistair wraps his arms around her waist and rests his head against her stomach, Aeron just runs her fingers through his hair. “You can’t go fighting half the world for me, Alistair. I know you want to—”

“I can try,” he mutters.

“Don’t,” she tells him. “There are too many little things. You’d die of exhaustion before you won. Besides, I’m pretty sure I can look after myself.”

“I know. I haven’t forgotten. Just…” Alistair looks up at her. “It isn’t fair. Can I just point that out? It’s not fair.”

Aeron gives him a little smile, and the pain is easier to bear. “Just as long as you know you’re not the first to point it out.”


End file.
